Monday, September 06, 2004

I listen to NPR all the time because I need something to occupy my mind while I'm diapering and doing dishes, and because at the end of the day when my husband comes home it's nice to have something to talk about other than, well, diapering and doing dishes.

But I have to say, as much as I enjoy all the news and shit, their arts coverage is horrible. Horrible and irritating and really queer.

First of all, I have to avoid the radio altogether at 3pm when Terri Gross comes on. She can't even say her own name right, for heaven's sake--"This is Cherry Gross." And she's always asking stupid questions and generally missing the point.

And then on the news shows, they always devote the end of the program to a book or (shudder) music. The music is usually either World Beat, or an earnest singer-songwriter type, or the latest solo album from somebody who was in a famous band in the sixties. They have these dreadfully serious yet supposedly in-the-know commentators to talk about the music, and then they play long snippets of what's usually just dreadful stuff, fit only for the ears of aging baby boomers.

Now, I understand that maybe I'm a little young to be listening to NPR all the time, but really, if they want younger listeners they need to stop being so DORKY. The other thing they do regularly is always make these stupid little jokes--you know, the kind of joke that makes people chuckle but never really laugh? Sometimes they write dorky poems that rhyme, usually about current events, and sometimes--even worse--their listeners write to them with dorky poems that rhyme, and they read them over the radio.

And don't even get me started on Prairie Home Companion. I mean, that guy tells the exact same story over and over again, in that same quiet, simultaneously earnest yet smirky voice. It's so.... heartwarming.

I suppose I should consider this the charm of public radio, but it's starting to get on my nerves. No wonder people don't want to listen to moderate, balanced media coverage, when it's interspersed with such.... dorkiness.

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.